I Tried KFC’s Cola Wicked Wings (So You Didn’t Have To…)

There has been much hype surrounding KFC’s new Cola BBQ Wicked Wings (mostly on KFC’s own Facebook page which I follow since I am of the sincere belief that simply seeing pictures of fatty food (and then consuming it) can make a hangover literally disappear).
It was due to this genius marketing technique (and a stream of constant ads on Spotify) that I found myself drawn to find out if they lived up to the hype.

The Feedback online was solid:

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Bella called them Heaven – a good sign however she seemingly blamed KFC for her allergy to pulled pork (or just pork in general, I’m unsure) so perhaps her mental stability was questionable.

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Jack loved them so much that he wanted to throw caution to all human biology and seemingly consume his own blood? That’s commitment to a cause bro.

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And Hemant called KFC the best thing that happened in his life. And that’s understandable, his name is Hemant, literally everything that happened after he was named was probably a bonus.

I thought carefully about what I was planning to inflict upon my body. I’d already worked out that day (I went for a walk and then spent an hour in the yard attempting to hula hoop, finally getting the hang of it as my speakers blasted Ricky Martin’s Livin La Vida Loca and a young Indian family looked on curiously from the balcony that has a perfect view into my yard). Plus I hadn’t eaten since the previous night – it was now 2pm. I showered (after taking a photo of myself in my active wear to prove that I’d worked out) and momentarily considered putting on the jumper from the night before deciding against it due to the large curry stain on the front.

side-by-side

I decided upon wearing this T-shirt that was my favourite when I was 12 years old, for several reasons; 1) because dolphins are bad ass, 2) because it feels good to still be able to wear the same thing that fitted me when I was twelve (even if it does remind me that I was a bit of a chubber as a kid) and 3) I think the whole look I was going for made me come off as younger. I think it is okay to feast on KFC alone when you’re closer to eighteen than thirty so I tried to make it seem that way.

As I got in the car (even though KFC is a ten minute walk) my phone buzzed – hazzah, I’d reached my daily step goal. I really did deserve this.

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I set my goal embarrassingly low so that I can always achieve it without actually trying.

I hit up the Prospect KFC on Main North Road, even though I’ve previously had shit experiences there (I once rode my bike here, drunk, only to wait so long for my food that I was sober by the time I re-mounted my treadly). I took the risk and history had a mild repeat; only one attendant already serving a woman who seemed to be the most painful customer in all known history but I felt for the girl behind the counter so I put aside my judgement and politely waited in line. When my turn came I placed my order (3 x Cola BBQ Chicken Wings, Large Chips and Gravy and Large Frozen Mountain Dew) while mentally taking note of the energy intake because I just love to hate myself (at least 4,440kj, around half the daily recommended intake for an adult – YAY).
The food arrived and while I was mildly irritate that I had to ask for the cutlery pack (containing the all important trademark KFC wet wipe) I was excited for what promised to be a flavour sensation.

food-and-recipt
I decided to eat in because I’m concerned my housemate already thinks I’m a failure at life, I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.

The woman at the table next to me was repeatedly asking her daughter (Erin Ray – I assume it is spelled like that but on surface appearance, this woman likely spelled it “Erryne Rayé”) if she needed to go to the toilet and to stop standing on the table so I decided to put my headphones in. I chose R Kelly’s ‘Bump n Grind’ because chicken is a really sensual food and deserves a sound track to match (I chose to pretend that R Kelly has never experienced controversy to ensure that I could better enjoy my juicy snack, I’ve shared the lyric video version below so that you can enjoy the song without SEEING R Kelly.).

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That look I give you when you suggest “R.Kelly and Chicken”

First I licked the sauce – I apologise if that is a visual that you never wanted in your mind however it was worth it. The sauce truly is the real highlight here. Every flavour that my tongue has experienced up until now pales in comparison (and I once had pasta sauce made with condensed milk). Angels sang and unicorns danced with every flavour hit. This sauce really is absolutely everything that was promised – I don’t care what comes out of your Italian Grandmothers kitchen, it is total rubbish compared to this gift from the Gods – in fact, nothing this tasty could come from Heaven, as the name implies only the devil could supply something so delicious,which makes sense since we all know that The Colonel was no saint.
The chicken was a nice bonus. Could have been hotter, skin was good, like I said, everything else pales in comparison to the sauce.

after
Sad because there is none left, also sad because my body is trying to reject everything I just filled it with.

As I took my last bite I removed my headphones, sat back and took in the scenery. Playing over the in store sound system was ‘Let Her Cry’ by Hootie and The Blowfish, which seemed weirdly appropriate. There was a woman in her mid-forties sitting not too far away, digging into a family feast all alone, a sign in the window encouraging KFC customers to donate to a charity raising funds for starving children and in the car park a ute with a sticker that disturbingly proclaimed “Dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians”. Despite being surrounded by such sadness, despair and grotesque horror I was in my element – truly in love with a sauce.

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If KFC offered me to (please do) I would consume every meal for a month with that sauce on it and I will pray to God that my boyfriend likes the KFC Cola BBQ sauce because if my wishes come true it won’t be long before my body tastes of it. God bless you junk food giants.

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Sorry not sorry

I’m really sorry to say this but the word ‘sorry’ sucks. Is it just me or is it insanely over used? I know that I am constantly apologising for things completely out of my control – usually in the work place. I like to think that it makes me come off as a good person; helpful and polite. Whenever I do it though, I feel like a complete twat. Like “I’m sorry that I don’t know where ‘so&so’ is, perhaps he went to get a coffee?” I say to my manager – but why should I be sorry? That guy is probably having the time of his life flirting with the cute girl at the coffee shop. Jerk.
I wrote myself a post-it note and stuck it to my computer “stop saying sorry” it said, and when of the senior managers asked me what it was about, I explained it to him as succinctly as possibly – apologising at least three times during the process.
I know it’s something that we’re told as women to do less – apparently we all take on all the burdens of the world and feel the guilt tenfold that of men. I don’t know if that’s true though, I’ve met some very overly apologetic men in my time (but granted, some of those apologies were deserved – I’m looking at you ‘terrible sex Todd’ – not his real name…)
I feel crap every time I apologise unnecessarily. That being said, I’ve got a few things I do need to apologise for before I truly commit to erasing sorry from my life – so without further ado…

  • I’m sorry to my brother Nick for all the times I told you to do things as a kid just so that I could watch you get into trouble. Mum, there was one time when I told him to throw our freshly laundered pyjamas in the bathtub just for the LOLs. And that was before LOLs were even a thing. (I’m not sorry for laughing when you got caught wagging school because one of your moronic mates posted about it on Facebook).
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I’m sorry that there was every a time in history where Nick & I thought we could pull this off.
  • I’m sorry to past Alicia for encouraging unrealistic expectations. I know I promised that we would never live in a house that had a shower curtain because you hate the way the stick to you. I’m sorry I lied. (I’m not sorry that you have spent the past three years showering in a bathroom with a shower curtain, its clingy ways have helped develop strength to endure through adversity in a very white middle class way).
  • I’m sorry to my co-workers who had to put up with me answering every question by reciting the opening monologue of Law and Order SUV one day last week. I recognise that it was very annoying to hear it twenty times in one afternoon. (I’m not sorry that I did it though, having memorised that short paragraph has helped shaped the person I am – one week later).
  • I’m sorry to my parents for trying to win every adolescent argument with the phrase “I never asked to be born”. It was low and shitty. (I’m not sorry that I thought it though – it’s a valid point, I don’t remember sending in a request form asking for ‘life’ – maybe my parents should have considered the very real difficulties that I would face in my privileged life before conceiving me. Bed at 10pm when you’re fourteen is a bullshit rule).
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I’m pretty sure that my general expression in this photo says “wasn’t abortion a viable option?”
  • I’m sorry to everyone I’ve ever been at a social event with, for over indulging in the nibbles to the point of embarrassment (I’m not sorry for enjoying and relishing in every beautiful mouthful).
  • I’m sorry to every male that I have ever and ever will be in a relationship with, for sharing with you my unpleasant smells, sounds, moods and opinions (I’m not sorry for shattering your belief that the female of the species is a delicate little porcelain unicorn that should be placed gently upon a pedestal for fear of breaking – I’m glad that someone finally alerted you to the fact that we’re more alike than you would ever care to admit). I am also sorry for every orgasm I have and ever will fake…in the big scheme of things, that’s not really helping anybody is it?
  • I’m sorry to my current self, for any time that I ever made myself feel bad for a choice that I have made. For criticising my physical self and my mental self. I am far more capable than I usually allow myself to believe and I need to stop treating myself like shit (I’m not sorry about the negative talk that I gave myself when I over plucked my eyebrows in year nine. That was deserved, those brows were dangerously abused and if I had not been so harsh on myself I may still have pencil thing lines above my eyes implying that I am in a constant state of shock or surprise which would be truly dreadful).

 

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I’m sorry I ever allowed these brows to leave the house.

In answer to Justin Bieber, it’s never too late to say sorry but maybe sometimes it’s just not necessary. I had a conversation with someone recently who told me the word is never required so I decided to call his bluff and said; “what if I maliciously kill someone, slowly and sadistically with incredibly will and intent – should I say sorry at some point?” and he said “well if you meant to do it then you’re really not sorry”. Touché old man.  I don’t 100% comprehend it but regardless I will take it as pure gospel.